A Knight's Vow (26 page)

And Isabel—he opened his eyes as she left the room. She had been appalled by his wounds; how much worse his mutilation? Would she cringe when he touched her? In his mind a vivid picture sprang to life, of his mother arraying herself in fine fabrics, hoping to offset her plain face. He remembered his father—and then stepfather—barely noticing she was in the hall, and the quiet devastation in her expression.

James had tried so hard his entire life to never let that happen to him. He'd been blessed with looks and charm, but even they weren't enough for an earl. Now his competence, his protective presence, were gone. He'd never be the same man again. He felt weary, despairing, and he let sleep wash it all away.

Hours later, James smelled something utterly delicious. His stomach gave a low rumbling growl and he opened his eyes to find Isabel sitting beside

him. She held a tray with a steaming wooden bowl on top.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

He nodded and started to sit up, then gasped as a burning pain shot through his hand. He saw Isabel recoil, and knew she tried to hide it. He felt sick inside. Using his left hand, he leveraged himself to a sitting position, trying to ignore the waves of pain in his right one.

"You're not going to feed me," he said sternly.

"I never gave it a thought."

She set the tray across his lap, placed the bowl of soup and spoon on top, then sat back. Watching, he supposed, to see if he was capable of a task he'd been doing since he was a babe. What a change in his life—instead of Isabel admiring him for his prowess and strength, she could now admire him for feeding himself.

James ate in silence, as it took all his effort to bring the spoon to his mouth. He was so weak. "How long have I been unconscious?" he finally asked.

"Only a few days," she said.

"Has anything of importance happened that I should know about?"

"Someone in Rosenfield village had a baby and they wanted me to tell you."

Was she being sarcastic? "Aah, Roddy's new wife gave birth."

She rolled her eyes. "You don't know the girl's name?"

"Edith."

There was an uneasy silence, and James continued to eat, knowing she wouldn't leave until he'd finished. He was sick of wondering what she was thinking.

After she'd left, he lay looking at the ceiling. It finally came to him that he was drowning in self- pity before he'd even tried to hold a sword. His own behavior would drive his people away. My God, had he sunk so low? Was he ready to give up without a fight?

That was something he could learn from his mother. She had never stopped trying. No matter how many times either of her foolish husbands disregarded her, she gamely tried again.

By the saints, he would learn to fight even if he had to use his left hand. He would not sit like a useless lump before the fire, watching Isabel's disgust.

Chapter 24

By the evening, James had begun to walk about his bedchamber, but Isabel could tell he did not feel ready to face the great hall. Annie brought up a tray and proceeded to set dinner on a small table before the fire. The maid laid out snowy white tablecloths, with beeswax candles in a silver candelabra. She used the finest silver plates and glass goblets, then made another trip to the kitchens for the food itself. By the time she bid them goodnight, there was a full feast for two people.

Isabel had not meant her to go to such trouble, but she thought she understood the workings of Annie's mind. Annie wanted Isabel to be happy at Bolton Castle, and she'd seen that good food helped.

She sat down in her chair and James took the chair opposite her. Spread out before her was fried fish, steaming white bread and soft cheese, and baked pears dripping with sauce.

She closed her eyes and just inhaled, then reached across the table to spear a piece of fish.

"No, not like that," James said, pushing her hand aside. "Ask me to pass the platter."

She frowned. "What results do you see in these pointless lectures of yours?"

"I see a wife who can eat in front of guests without them gaping at her."

Isabel had once been happy when she had succeeded in embarrassing him. But now there was a constant ache in her chest when she was near him. She really didn't know how to eat in front of people, and it made her feel inferior, worthless. She was only good at one thing.

"Let me join the knights in practice at the tiltyard," she suddenly said.

He set down his spoon. "You are not a man. I won't have my wife—"

"I miss training, I miss being outside. I have nothing to do here!"

"You will learn."

"Not if you don't give me a reason to."

James used his knife to awkwardly break a piece of bread from the loaf. He held it out and she shook her head. He lifted one eyebrow.

"My men have not forgotten that you robbed me," he said, "that you made fools of them."

"I made a fool of you—there's a difference."

He smiled. "You could be harmed."

"You've fought me. Can they so easily vanquish me? I've been watching them all, and I could tell you each of their weaknesses. And if that isn't good enough, I will only train with William. Let me do what I'm good at."

"I will make a bargain with you," he said.

Isabel gave him a skeptical look.

"For every hour you train in the tiltyard, you must spend an hour learning to behave like a woman."

She knew deep in her heart that she would fail, that she was not the woman he thought he deserved. But perhaps she could carve out a place for herself in his household—and also wield her sword.

"Very well," Isabel said. "'Tis a bargain."

He nodded solemnly, but she could tell he wasn't happy. They both continued to eat in a silence full of awkwardness and misery.

James watched her face, knowing she was trying to distance herself from him. The thought of being in the same room with him, of his hands touching her, must repulse her now. Did she hate him so

much that she deliberately reminded him that he couldn 't train, might never hold a sword again?

Annie and Margaret returned to take away the remains of the meal, and to change the dressing on his hand. James didn't have to worry that Isabel would see his deformity. She stayed on the far side of the room, her eyes averted in disgust. Hell, even he couldn't look.

After the servants had gone, James lay back in bed and watched Isabel disrobe down to her shirt, but no further. When she actually walked to the fire with her blanket, something snapped inside him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

She took a deep breath before meeting his gaze. "I am going to sleep."

"Not over there you're not."

"But I always—"

"You became my wife body and soul a few days ago. I demand you sleep in my bed. And it's freezing on the floor!"

"Very well," she said, climbing into bed beside him. She faced away from him and pulled the blankets up to her neck.

Stunned and baffled at her acquiescence, James lay still. The temptation of her body was so bittersweet. How he ached to run his hand down the

curve of her waist, to slide his thigh between hers. But he could picture how she'd react when he touched her with this bandaged mutilation that was once a hand.

Isabel waited for James to touch her. It was a foolish hope, and one he quickly dashed by rolling away from her. He must certainly have been angry at her when she wouldn't even care for his wounds. What kind of wife—no, what kind of woman was she?

She cared for him too much, and he would never care for her. She was a thief, a savage. How could he care, with all that she'd done to him, how she'd spoken to him after they'd shared a bed?

Early in the morning, James dressed himself one- handedly in the simplest tunic and shirt he could find. He paused at the head of the stairs, trying to brace himself for everyone's pity. But in the hall, he was met with cheery good wishes, and expressions of gladness that he was well. He looked hard, but caught no sadness—no pity at all.

William kept him company at the head table, chattering away about what James had missed while he was gone. But James had a hard time

concentrating. He was waiting grimly for Isabel to appear and keep her part of their bargain.

He turned to find William watching him.

"My lord," the boy said softly, "they were all worried about you. The hall was shrouded in grief for many a day."

James didn't know how to answer that. He wanted to say they should still grieve because he wasn't the same man. He stopped himself, remembering his vow to put aside such self-pity. Instead he simply thanked William.

Over the next few days, James did his best to turn Isabel into the ideal wife, one he wouldn't have to be ashamed of at court. But nothing worked out as planned. She was hopelessly clumsy at embroidery, forever picking out the strings and starting over. Instead of learning to bake, she licked bowls, and praised Cook. In the dairy, she gazed out the window at the tiltyard instead of churning, ruining a batch of butter. Isabel had no sympathy to heal the sick, whom she thought should be up and about rather than pitying themselves.

James's frustration reached a boiling point when he was called to the sewing room to remove his wife. He had been prepared to yell, to lecture, but he found her towering above a group of scolding women, dripping blood from her hand. He pulled up

in the doorway and just looked at her. Her dark eyes were crinkled in amusement, and her lips twitched at the corners, as if she were trying desperately not to laugh. The sight of her made him ache inside, and his anger fled.

"Isabel?"

The women turned towards him, talking all at once about his wife's clumsiness and impatience, but James ignored them. He met Isabel's gaze over their heads. She actually blushed and looked away from him. A maidenly blush from Isabel?

The two of them were herded into the hall, and the sewing room door was shut firmly behind them. They stood there awkwardly as Isabel tried to wrap her wound in a length of cloth.

James rolled his eyes. "Come to our bedchamber and I'll bandage that."

"'Tis nothing," she protested, not meeting his eyes. "I've had far worse."

"So have I," he said wryly, "but you still need to take care of it."

She followed him to their room, then stood stiff and silent while he found some strips of cloth and heated water. He laid everything out on a table before the fire, then looked up at her.

"Isabel, come here." Even the sound of her name on his lips made him shudder with a need he could no longer fulfill. He didn't even know if she'd accept the touch of his mutilated hand. But she came forward readily enough and sat across from him.

"I can do this," she said quiedy.

"Not easily. How did this happen?" he asked, as he awkwardly bathed her wound with his left hand. "For someone so good with a sword, how could you possibly injure yourself in the sewing room?"

She bit her lip and looked away. James again saw repressed merriment in her eyes, and he wanted so badly to share it with her.

"Cutting fabric," she finally answered. "I couldn't line it up right, and my hand.. .was in the way."

With clean strips of cloth, he began to wrap her hand, taking his time, enjoying the only touch of her skin that was left to him. He suddenly caught a distinctive odor, and he leaned forward to sniff.

"Is that ale I smell on your breath?"

Her eyes widened, and he saw a fleeting dimple in one of her cheeks. "You told me to learn to brew."

"But you aren't supposed to get drunk!"

Did a soft giggle escape her lips?

"I'm hardly drunk. They told me to taste the ale."

James smiled despite his resolve. He wanted to lean closer, draw her laughter inside himself with kisses. He wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong with him, that she might fall willingly into his arms. But he looked down at his botched attempt to tie her bandage tight, and his smile died.

After a moment's silence, Isabel said, "You should join the men at the tiltyard tomorrow."

He glanced up at her and sat back, the contact between them broken. He gave her a smile, but he knew it wasn't a successful one." 'Tis too soon."

"You could use your left hand to sword fight. With your right, it might be best to start with a dagger's weight."

He remained silent.

"If you prefer to train alone—"

"Isabel, how would you feel if you had to appear before all your men, holding your sword as poorly as a babe just out of swaddling clothes?"

"It would be difficult," she admitted after a moment. Her voice seemed to soften. "Do you not think your knights would admire you even more for not giving up?"

James sighed. "You may be right."

"Pardon me?"

"I said—" He stopped himself, lost again in the sweet possibilities of her laughter. "I think you like hearing me say that you're right."

Her gaze slid from his with all the natural ability of a born flirt. "Perhaps," was her only concession.

After another frustrating night trying to keep away from Isabel in bed, James stood beside the tiltyard and watched her. He came to the conclusion that one of the reasons she failed so much at domesticity was that she was always thinking ahead to each hour in the tiltyard. He had predicted wrongly about her effect on the men as she and William began to train.

At first the soldiers and knights had watched her warily, then they ignored her, then they became reluctantly impressed. Soon they were treating her like a little brother, teaching her drinking songs or challenging her to single combat—until James arrived, when they went back to their duties.

He couldn't help but feel excluded. Of course the soldiers would turn to Isabel, a talented swordswoman, now that James could no longer lead them in combat. He was an outsider.

The self-pity of it all was making him sick. He went back to his bedchamber and spent an hour

practicing his sword fighting maneuvers left- handed, away from pitying eyes. When he heard footsteps in the hall, he grabbed the scabbard and tried to ram the blade home, but ended up dropping everything in a clatter. Isabel opened the door and looked at him silently, no expression on her face.